Den of Thieves
by Absynthess
Summary: Mafia AU. Three years after a series of cataclysmic events broke the structure of power in the city, the families once again begin to move. But while each boss tries to amass power, their underlings have their own ideas and secrets.
1. Chapter 1 : Coffee

_**Disclaimer: **_All characters featured in this story are the property of Hidekaz Himaruya and do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this story as it is meant purely for entertainment.

_Den of Thieves  
Chapter One: Coffee_

As much of a new-age thinker as America is, there are certain traditions he refuses to break with. One of them is drinking a tall drink of coffee before the start of every mission.

"Al, we're going to be late," Canada says out of the side of his mouth as the two of them enter one of America's favorite cafés. "Is this really necessary?"

America, who had reached up to whip the fedora off of his head as the entered, turned to his brother now with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Of course it is!" he says animatedly. "If I don't have a grande frappuccino before we begin, we might as well throw in the towel now!"

"I think you're exaggerating just a bit, Al." Canada's voice is as calm and staid as always, but America doesn't even hear him as he heads for a table in one corner of the room. His brother follows him with a sigh, his hands finding their way to the pockets of his well-tailored blazer.

When the two of them are seated—America leaning back against the window, Canada with his back turned to the interior of the restaurant—and a waitress has taken their order, America steeples his fingers beneath his chin and looks up at Canada inquiringly. "So, d'you have any idea what this is all about?"

"A guess," Canada replies, biting down on his lower lip. "He wasn't exactly generous with the details."

"He never is," America grumbles, rolling his eyes. "You'd think he didn't trust us, or something."

"Because he doesn't." Canada shakes his head. "I don't think he'll _ever_ fully trust you again, Al. Not after what you did."

America throws his head back and laughs. "Oh, _that_? That was nothing." He waves one hand airily. "He'll get over it...eventually."

Canada releases his breath in a sigh. "If you're sure, Al."

The waitress returns with two piping mugs of coffee, and America thanks her with a wink as he lifts his from her tray. Bringing the mug to his lips, he takes a long, deep sip before replying, "I'm always sure. Just like I'm sure that a mission that starts without coffee is no mission at all."

His brother glances nervously down at his wristwatch. "Whatever you say, Alfred. But a mission that starts an hour late is an unsuccessful one."

"Tch. Tell me something, Matt: what's our success rate?"

"Ninety-seven percent," Canada replies promptly. "You know that."

"I do," America affirms with a nod, "but what I'm saying is this: a hundred missions, and we've only ever messed up three. So stop worrying and _relax_. This is going to be a piece of cake."

"I don't think so," Canada begins, but America cuts him off.

"Speaking of which, d'you think they serve cake here?"

Canada holds his head in his hands, wondering once more why he always has to be partnered with his boisterous brother. He's also thinking of the three missions they _have_ failed, and the common factor between them.

* * *

"Liet," Poland says, dragging out the syllable, "hurry _up_." He's standing in the entrance of the coffee shop, arms crossed over his chest and the sun glaring into his bright green eyes. A few blocks behind him, Lithuania runs to catch up, his pale skin flushed red with exertion.

"I...asked...you...to...wait...!" He finally catches up, gasping for breath and clutching one side of his stomach. "Honestly, Feliks!"

"You're just too slow," Poland says, examining his fingernails primly. He turns to Lithuania with a toss of his head. "Seriously, why am I even here, again?"

"Reconnaissance," Lithuania replies immediately. He continues, as though by rote, "Eduard said that Kirkland would be making his move, today—we have to see what's going on. But you're not supposed to _do_ anything, right, Feliks?"

Poland shrugs his shoulders exaggeratedly. "Geez. You guys never let me do anything fun."

"It isn't supposed to be fun, Feliks," Lithuania says apologetically. Poland just rolls his eyes. Sighing, Lithuania swings open the coffee shop's door and enters, Poland close behind him. He had tried to make them looks as inconspicuous as possible—casual jeans and button-downs for the both of them—but with Poland hanging off of his arm and asking Lithuania's opinion on the color of his shirt, he fears that they are just drawing attention to themselves.

"Liet, are you even listening to me?" Poland demands after a few moments of Lithuania's silence.

"Huh...what?" Lithuania asks, shaking his head. Poland pouts up at him, hands settling onto his hips.

"Whatever, Liet. Let's just go sit down, or something." The two men head over to the collection of large, comfy armchairs that create a small ring in the center of the café. Poland sits down first, settling himself down and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Lithuania takes a seat beside him, pulling out a sleek silver cell phone as he does so. As Poland orders for the two of them, Lithuania sends a quick text message:

WE'RE IN POSITION; TELL US WHEN THINGS BEGIN TO MOVE.

"You know," Poland says as their drinks arrive, "I really hate taking orders from that creepy bastard."

"Eduard?" Lithuania asks, surprised. "Why?"

"Not him," Poland snaps. "The big man. Why do we even stick around him, Liet?"

Lithuania sighs, the lines of his face drooping suddenly. "I don't know, Feliks...he keeps us safe. If we broke away from him, who would protect us? We've got our own enemies, you know."

"We could protect ourselves," Poland insists, slurping up his caramel macchiato. "You know we could."

"No," Lithuania says, a sad lilt to his voice, "we couldn't."

Poland begins to object, but the cell phone in Lithuania's hand lights up as it vibrates, so he has no chance to respond. Lithuania flips open the display.

_ROGER. TARGET APPROCHING._

"Get ready," Lithuania murmurs to Poland just as the cell phone lights up again.

_AND, TORIS? BE CAREFUL. OBSERVE ONLY._

"Easy enough for him to say," Poland scoffs, looking over Lithuania's shoulder. "He just sits behind a computer, like, all day!"

* * *

Unnoticed in another corner of the coffee shop, an elegantly dressed man sits with one leg crossed over the other. His soft blonde hair is loose about his shoulders, moving with him as he turns his head from side to side. His arms gesture exaggeratedly as he speaks.

"My, my, my," he says, his English thickly accented. "What did I do to deserve this pleasure?"

"You've done nothing," the young woman facing him says disapprovingly. "Just like you've done nothing for the past three years, France."

"Call me Francis," he says automatically, but the smile on his lips droops as she frowns at him. He sighs, runs a hand through his fair hair. "What do you expect me to do, Elizaveta? I don't exactly have an organization, anymore."

She shakes her head dubiously as she sits down across from him. Her thick brown hair is braided over one shoulder; she holds a slim leather computer-bag in one hand. "Don't try to kid us, or yourself," she says. "We all know you're not as powerless as you'd have us believe."

"Maybe that was true three years ago," he says with a sigh, "but my resources have dwindled considerably since then. All my old contacts, all my old allies...gone. Nothing left."

"Except your considerable finances."

"Yes, well," he remarks with a rueful grin. "I was able to salvage _something_. Armani doesn't exactly come cheap these days, either. But I still fail to see what you and your family want with me."

"My employer," Hungary responds, extracting a sleek laptop from the case and lifting its screen, "has a proposition for you. If it works, he's willing to split the spoils."

"And what are these spoils?" France asks, leaning across the table to glance at the charts and specs that Hungary is pulling up on the screen. At each new file, his blue eyes spark with anticipation.

"Everything," Hungary says tightly. She shifts awkwardly in her seat; though used to dealing with France, she's never particularly enjoyed it. "At least as much as you lost three years ago, perhaps more. And my employer is willing to share with you, provided that you assist him."

France takes a cigarette out of his front pocket and lights it, inhaling deeply. He blows a ring of smoke out between his lips and sets on elbow down on the table. "What, exactly, does he expect me to do?"

"Your finances aren't the only thing you have left, France," Hungary says, her voice gentler than it was before. "You still have your influence, and your knowledge. Those are what he wants to use; those are instrumental to his plan."

"If I'm instrumental, as you say, then it means he _needs_ me," France murmurs, his voice smug.

"Don't flatter yourself," is Hungary's quick reply. "You are but one option in a series of similar plans. If you decline my offer, there're others I can go to."

"Like who?" France asks blandly. "Your employer isn't very popular with the other family heads, as I recall. And there aren't many freelancers like myself—only two, last time I checked. And I doubt your employer wants to work with the other."

"No one would," Hungary mutters, somewhat sadly. "It's not as if he's much use to anyone, is he?"

* * *

Hong Kong always takes well to American cities. New York, especially, fascinates him, with its fast-paced living and bright lights. He feels at home, here, or as much at home as one can feel on a different continent. That being said, he's not sure he's entirely comfortable with what he's about to do. Still, he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door of the coffee shop, wishing himself luck.

The aromas hit him first—cacao beans and cinnamon and nutmeg and whipped cream. Then the sounds—the clatter of feet against linoleum, a waitress calling in her orders, the hiss of boiling water in kettles. Compared to that sensory overload, the vision itself is unimpressive—beiges, browns, and creams all blend together into a typical American café.

Hong Kong makes his way swiftly through the shop, taking in everything. He reaches up to power up the earpiece he's wearing, and begins to murmur, ever so quietly, "I spot four, maybe five."

A voice crackles to life in his ear. "_Copy that, HK. Who are they?_"

"Two from Braginski's group," the young man says, his voice dropping. He's now positioned to look at the back of Poland and Lithuania's heads. "No threat, however."

The voice lets out a small laugh. "_I'll bet. There're probably just trying to figure out what's going on. So, who else?_"

"The female Ottoman," Hong Kong says. He tries to crane his neck to see who she's sitting with, but he can't make out a face.

"_Damn,_" his contact curses. "_Try not to let her know you're there, ok? She could be trouble._"

"You don't need to tell me that," Hong Kong mutters. "I know already." His shoves his hands into his pockets and finally spots Canada and America in the far corner of the room.

"Kirkland's boys are here," he says, his voice dropping even lower.

"_But we knew that. We expected it. So why not go over and introduce yourself?_"

Hong Kong sighs, then replies, "Roger." He presses the earpiece again, turning it off, and releases his breath abruptly before sucking it all back into his chest. He makes his way over to the two brother's table, gathering his courage as he prepares to speak.

Embroiled in their own conversation, Canada and America do not notice him, at first. Eventually, however, Canada tugs on America's sleeve and points to Hong Kong, who is waiting patiently, hands still in his pockets.

"Hong Kong?" America asks, bemused. "You're the one...?"

"Hello," Hong Kong says formally, with a small half-bow. "I have some information for your boss; I believe he's expecting it."


	2. Chapter 2 : Journey

_**Disclaimer: **_All characters featured in this story are the property of Hidekaz Himaruya and do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this story as it is meant purely for entertainment.

_Den of Thieves  
Chapter Two: Journey_

Miles away from the coffee shop, Vietnam glances at the proceedings through a LCD screen. There is a practical, discerning look etched up her features as she leans her chin against her steepled fingers. A Bluetooth earpiece covers one of her ears, but there is no connection—her contact has long since severed the link. Watching Hong Kong approach America and Canada's table through the monitors, she sits back and sighs.

"You're _sure_ he'll be ok?" She asks the question aloud, rubbing her throbbing temples. Behind her, someone chuckles.

"Of course!" Korea comes up behind her and places one hand on her shoulder. "He's a tough kid, Noona. He can handle himself."

He's dressed in the barest trappings of what should have been a three-piece suit: a button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, a black vest unbuttoned towards his collar, dark pants casually crinkled. He lifts two fingers and offers Vietnam a salute.

"I still don't know why all this is necessary," she says at length. She lifts one hand and places it over Korea's, squeezing for comfort. "We could have waited; things would have started to move eventually."

"Yah, but Hyung-nim isn't that patient," Korea chuckles. "Though, to be honest, neither am I. I'm glad we have something to do, again."

"You would be," Vietnam comments dryly. "Though, I guess all of us were getting a bit itchy, after just sitting around for three years."

"Longer than that," Korea contends. "Hyung-nim called us all back long before things went too badly." There is a crooked smile on his boyish features as he speaks, recalling. "That decision probably saved our lives."

"Oh, yes," Vietnam replies scathingly. "Anh is very good at preserving his own and leaving everyone else to suffer."

"Well, you're right, of course, but he might've sided with France, if things had turned out differently."

"How do you figure that?"

"Well…if you hadn't sided with France, Hyung-nim might've."

Vietnam's cheeks turn bight red. "I-I-I didn't _side_ with anyone!" She sputters, the color leeching down her high cheekbones.

"You're supposed to side with your family, Noona," Korea murmurs softly. "The fact that you didn't kind of chose for you."

Vietnam groans and pushes away Korea's hand, covering her face in her own. "I don't want to talk about this anymore; it's pointless."

Korea shrugs, nods in agreement. The two of them remain silent for a moment, the air tense between them, until a small light flashes on Vietnam's Bluetooth earpiece.

"_Jiejie? Are you still there?_"

"Hong? Yes, of course. What's your status?"

"_I'm going back to their base, to complete the delivery._"

"They agreed that quickly?" Vietnam asks, shocked. Mistrustful of nearly everyone, she expects them to return those suspicions in kind.

"_…yes. I should go, now. They're waiting._"

"Yes, of course. And, Hong? Be careful." As the line goes dead again, Vietnam releases the breath she doesn't know she'd been holding. "Korea?" she calls out, for her brother has wondered away in the interim.

"What's up?" Korea asks, returning from the shadows while gently snapping shut his silver cell phone.

"Phase One complete," Vietnam says with a soft smile.

"Awesome. We can tell Hyung-nim when we see him."

Vietnam cocks her head to one side in question.

"That was Aniki on the phone. We've been summoned back to base."

* * *

"Liet? Is that China's little brother?" Poland's voice is lackadaisical, disbelieving, as it breaks into Lithuania's concentration.

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" Lithuania replies, his voice low.

"But that's, like, impossible. Their family hasn't been seen in three years!"

"Keep your voice down, Feliks," Lithuania pleads, turning to his partner. He brushes the nut brown hair back from his forehead and sighs. "Well, we knew they weren't _gone_. I suppose it was only a matter of time before they resurfaced."

"You think the Big Man knows?" Poland asks, his voice lowered now to a hushed whisper.

"I'd like to think he would've warned us, if he did."

"Or maybe this was his idea of a joke." Poland's disdain is clear as he wrinkles his nose.

"No," Lithuania refutes gently, "He's been trying to ally with China's family for _ages_. I can't see how he would've hidden it if he knew that the Ancient One was back on the scene."

"I guess you're right," Poland sighs. "I wouldn't put it past him, though—hey, Liet! They're leaving! China's brother is leaving with America and what's his face!"

Lithuania turns to look, and, sure enough, Canada, America, and Hong Kong are standing, now, and heading for the door. His face hidden behind his coffee cup, Lithuania bites his lip as the corners of his mouth turn down with worry.

"What should we do, Liet? Follow them?"

"Um…I don't think so. Eduard said not to, remember?"

"He said not to _do_ anything," Poland retorts, "but we're supposed to be gathering information! How can we not follow?"

"But what if—" Lithuania's reply is lost as Poland grabs his hand and drags him towards the door, following a few minutes behind their targets.

As they step outside the coffee shop, Lithuania starts to say something, but Poland presses one finger against his lips.

"Look, Liet—you're good at sitting and waiting, I know that. But I'm, like, better at the active stuff, y'know? So just follow my lead."

Lithuania sighs, and nods. "Of course, Feliks. But just want are you planning on doing?"

"If the Ancient One's up and about after all this time, and he's sending agents to old Union Jack, don't you think our people would want to know why?"

"Of course," Lithuania repeats, "but we aren't aptly prepared to follow—"

His voice stops short abruptly as a pair of gloved hands close over his mouth and jerk him backwards.

"Liet!" Poland cries out, reaching for him, but before he can move more than an inch he feels the cold barrel of a gun pressing against the back of his head.

"Now then," a cold voice asks, "who is it that you two are following?"

* * *

An hour later, Hungary gets out of the car in front of an elaborate Eastern-style mansion. Miles away from the city, the air is cleaner, but a sense of foreboding clutches at her stomach as she ascends the steps, arms crossed over her chest. She turns away from the front door at the last moment, going instead towards a side entrance. Into the small keypad over the doorknob she types four digits: one, five, four, one. There is a gentle hiss as the lock releases, and she pulls open the door and enters the house.

Her heeled steps make gentle clicking noises against the marble tiles, and as the clock chimes the hour a million chimes go off, filling the long, empty corridor with noise.

She's ascended another staircase, and is about to open a door at the end of the long hallway when she hears footsteps behind her.

"Well, look who's back," Bulgaria says dryly, clapping his hands together hollowly, mockingly. "I take it you were successful?"

"Am I ever not?" Hungary retorts with a toss of her head. Her green eyes turn hard, like jade stones, as she turns to face him. He's a tall man, dark-haired and olive-skinned. He's dressed simply, his blazer unbuttoned over his shirt and his collar undone. His hands are stained with something—ink or oil, Hungary thinks.

"So, he's on board?" Bulgaria asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Who can be certain?" Hungary responds airily. "But I delivered my message; I did my job. No one can expect any more than that."

"_He_ can," Bulgaria reminds her, a vindictive poison leaking into his tone. "He can expect much, much more. So you'd best hope you were successful, and that the wine bastard's going to help us."

"Oh, he'll help," a new voice says, and Bulgaria and Hungary turn to see Egypt walking towards them. Unlike the others, in their pristine suits and dark colors, he's dressed in a loose, flowing white kaftan, belted with crimson at his waist. "His goal is the same as ours, after all."

"I don't see why," Bulgaria responds glumly, arms crossed over his chest. "We're no friends to him."

"Aren't we?" Hungary asks with a sly smile. "We're the enemy of his enemy, aren't we? And doesn't that make us friends, by the loosest definition?"

"You don't want to be his friend," Egypt says, his head tilting gently to one side. "He knows not how to keep them."

"But if he helps us achieve our goal," Hungary says, tapping one finger against her lips, "where's the harm?"

"Let's be clear, here," Bulgaria breaks in, his voice rough. "Which goals are you talking about? The Ottoman Family's, or _ours_?" He gestures to indicate the three of them.

"We are the Ottoman Family," Hungary says carefully.

"But we all know," Egypt puts in, his dark eyes alight, "that we have our own goals, too."

* * *

They left the coffee shop nearly two hours ago. America and Canada led Hong Kong to their waiting cab, and slipped in on either side of him, effectively trapping him as the taxi made its way through the crowded, winding streets. He kept his heart rate low and his expression carefully neutral, but when he stopped recognizing street names, Hong Kong began to grow worried. Eventually, the cab stopped against the curb of a great, old skyscraper, and Canada motioned for Hong Kong to exist the car.

"What do you think?" America asks brightly as they walk towards the building, a boyish smile on his face. He gestures at the massive gray building, pride coloring his voice.

"It is very…modern," Hong Kong decides, picking his words carefully.

"Of course," Canada murmurs. "It is only three years old, after all."

Wondering why he sounds so cryptic, Hong Kong follows Canada and his brother into the building. There are countless people inside; sitting at desks and answering phones, milling about the lobby and wiping the windows. China's home is always reserved, quiet, and there is never any unnecessary action or noise. Hong Kong knew that this place would be different, but the degree of that difference didn't quite set in until he heard it.

Everyone they pass turns to wave or smile at America; he laps up the attention, passing out handshakes, high fives, and winks as if they're going out of style.

"…he is not very…covert…is he?" Hong Kong mutters to Canada.

The fair-haired man sighs, releasing his breath all at once. "Al has never been very good with subtlety," Canada admits. "But that's what I—people, that's what _people_ like about him. He seems honest, genuine."

"…'seems'?" Hong Kong questions.

"Everyone is more than they seem, Hong Kong," Canada replies slowly, a careful smile on his seemingly gentle features. "Didn't you know?"

As they crowd into an elevator with perhaps a million other people, Hong Kong nods slowly, though Canada probably doesn't see the motion. Of course he knows that; his siblings are masters when it comes to masks, showing one face to the world and keeping another to themselves. And no one is more apt at that than the eldest brother, China—except, perhaps, for Hong Kong himself.

The elevator slowly empties as they ascend through the building—by the fifteenth floor, only the three of them are left.

"Just remember, Hong Kong," America murmurs to him, "don't make any sudden moves. The old man doesn't really appreciate things like that."

"Huh?" Hong Kong asks in confusion, caught off guard.

The elevator doors slide open as America laughs. "Hasn't anyone told you? Our boss is a bit of a temperamental dick."

"Alfred!" Canada wails.

"What? It's true," America says.

"_There_ you are!" A bold, annoyed, and distinctively feminine voice calls out. "Where have you been?"

Hong Kong turns just as a small, dark-haired girl gives America a playful slap on the shoulder. She whips around, seeing him, something predatory in her amber eyes.

"And who is _this_?"

Hong Kong begins to think that he's not quite prepared for what he's gotten himself into.


	3. Chapter 3 : Capture

_**Disclaimer: **_All characters featured in this story are the property of Hidekaz Himaruya and do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this story as it is meant purely for entertainment.

_Den of Thieves  
Chapter Three: Capture_

Though Hong Kong would be loathe to admit it, he's more apt to be intimidated of women then of men. He supposes it's the result of growing up with two hot-headed, opinionated older sisters, especially since Vietnam and Taiwan had more power over him than his other brothers. He had even seen then force China into the tightest spots, before. And that was enough to give anyone a healthy fear of the gender.

"This is Hong Kong, Sey," America says, rolling his eyes. "Come on, you can't be that forgetful."

"Hong Kong," the girl—Sey? Seychelles, Hong Kong finally decides—taps her index finger against her pouting lower lip, thinking. "China's little brother, right? But what's he doing here?"

Hong Kong thinks of how to respond, but once again America beats him to it. "Well, you see, there's this little project we're working on—"

"Eh-hem," Canada clears his throat, which makes little noise but nevertheless cuts through the conversation. "Um, Al? I think if _he_ wanted everyone to know, he would have told them, wouldn't he?"

America grimaces. "Yeah, yeah, whatever Matt. Sey's a part of the family, isn't she?"

"She, um, hasn't been for very long," Canada says softly, looking up at the young girl apologetically. "I mean, I just don't want to...upset him."

"Hey, hey, it's ok," Seychelles says with a breezy laugh. "You think I don't know the ins and outs of this business? If I'm meant to find out, I will." And the wink that accompanies this statement makes Hong Kong more that certain that she will.

"And anyhow," she continues confidently, "you think I don't know that the Union Jack doesn't trust me yet? Why would he? I mean, its not like a voluntarily left France's family for him."

"Sey," Canada says pleadingly, "Be careful what you say."

"No, let the girl speak her mind," America interrupts. "I mean, who's here because they _want_ to be?"

"Al," Canada fairly wails. "He's just one floor above us!"

"And he can hear through walls and floor paneling?" America asks in disbelief. "Calm down, Matt. Seriously."

At this point, Hong Kong clears his through authoritatively. "I am sorry to interrupt, but could we please carry out our business?"

America and Canada both look startled, as if they'd forgotten he was even there. Hong Kong sighs internally, but he's used to this. He always fades into the background: in fact, that's why both the Union Jack and the Ancient One chose him for this job.

"Ok, ok," America says, putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "If you're so eager to see old bushy brows, then that's what we'll do. I'll take it from here, Matt."

"You sure?"

"Of course. Come on, Hong."

Hong Kong may wince at this shortening of his name, but he follows America dutifully down the corridor towards another set of elevators. Just before they do, however, Seychelles reaches forward almost imperceptibly and places something in his hand.

Only when they are in the elevator once more, and America's back is turned to him, does Hong Kong unfold the small piece of paper and read its contents: _And you? Did you leave China willingly, or are you another forced conquest?_

Hong Kong knows just as he would answer, but he's glad Seychelles isn't there to give him the chance. Because his answer would be: _Neither. I'm a business transaction._

* * *

"L-let go of me—!" Poland's voice comes out shrill and staggered as someone grabs his arms and tie them behind his back. He and Lithuania have both been dragged into an alley, and Poland is only too aware of the cold feel of the gun barrel against his neck.

"And why would we do that, when we went to all the trouble of catching you in the first place?" The man drawls his words as he comes into the light. Charcoal gray double-breasted suit, an indigo cravat in place of a tie. Sleeked back, thick brown hair, and deep eyes hidden behind thin spectacles. Austria.

"I mean it," Poland says warningly, "let go of Liet, or I'll, like, do something horrible to you!"

A dark, cackling laugh answers him. The man who was tying up Lithuania has finished the job, and now he steps forward, arms crossed over his chest. "_Really_?" he asks incredulously as his red eyes flash. "What are you going to do, Poland?"

"Don't underestimate me," Poland warns them, but Prussia now leans forward and flicks the other man on the forehead.

"No one will ever fear you," the silver-haired man tells him solemnly. Lithuania, whose hands are tied behind him and whose mouth is gagged, makes a desperate sound as Poland staggers backwards.

"Shit." The man holding the gun curses as Poland steps on his foot. "Watch where you're pushing people, Gilbert!"

"I'll push the prisoner wherever I damn well please," Prussia says arrogantly. "And you're not going to tell me any differently, Vash."

"Don't act so smug," Switzerland barks, dropping his grip on Poland's wrists. "Don't think I won't point this at you, next."

"Re-e-eally," Prussia scoffs. "Don't dream to big now, Vash."

"If you two will stop acting like morons, you will notice that our prisoners are attempting to escape," Austria mutters testily. Prussia and Switzerland suddenly jump to attention, and look around to find Poland and Lithuania crawling for the alley's entrance.

Prussia grabs Poland by the hair, yanking him backwards, while Switzerland's boot lands on Lithuania's back, stopping his progression.

"Please don't try that again," Austria says idly. He leans down and unties Lithuania's gag. "Now, your friend here seems adamant that we let you go. Should we take him up on that?"

"...you yourself just said, Austria...there was no point catching us if you were only going to let us go."

"Ah, but we're not letting _both_ of you go," Austria says. Lithuania's eyes widen in horror as the words sink in. Prussia laughs as he hoists Poland's struggling form onto his shoulders and retreats back towards a sleek BMW that is waiting at the back of the alley.

"No...!" Lithuania cries, but he is muffled as Switzerland forces his head back down.

"Silence," Austria orders with deadly calm. "Now, we know exactly who you're reporting to, Lithuania. Kindly tell the Big Man that if he doesn't want his little pony boy harmed, he'll stay out of the Black Eagle's domain from now on. You have been warned."

Austria nods once to Switzerland, who releases Lithuania and walks slowly back towards the car with Austria. Lithuania can hear the engine roar, feels the car flash by him. But he cannot see, because his eyes are too misted with furious, helpless tears.

* * *

"Hey, Aniki!" Korea jumps out of the car as it pulls up in front of the small building, racing forward to crush his brother in a one-armed hug. "Long time no see!"

Japan stiffens at Korea's touch, then gently but forcibly removes himself from his little brother's grasp. "Um, yes. Welcome home."

"Hey, Kiku," Vietnam says, emerging from the car as well. She brushes her hair back from her face with one hand as she waves the other in greeting. "How've you been?"

"I have been well, thank you, Nee-san," Japan replies formally, taking a sidestep as Korea attempts to touch him again. "Nii-san has been expecting you."

"Well, duh," Korea says as the three siblings enter the building. "I mean, he's the one who called us back, isn't he?" Vietnam giggles and rolls her eyes as Japan shakes his head.

"But about that, Kiku," Vietnam cuts in, "why _did_ he call us back? Aren't we supposed to be acting as Hong Kong's support crew?"

"Err, about that," Japan begins to respond, but his voice is cut off by a high-pitched scream.

"You absolute _bastard_! How could you? How could you!"

Alarmed, the three race down the corridor and burst into the main office, their expressions all alarmed. The next moment, as their eyes take in the scene, they become less so and more confused.

Taiwan's face is bright red as she stands in the office, her hands braces against the desk. Her hair hands, disheveled over her shoulders as she berates the man in front of her. And the man in question? The Asians' eldest brother is slouched comfortably in a low leather chair, his red robes draped over him like blankets. He's idly holding a long, lit pipe in one hand.

"Please calm down, aru," he says with unfazed calm. "Look, you've created a scene."

"That doesn't excuse what you did! You said he was just going to be a _spy_! Did you even tell him what you were doing?"

"Taiwan," China says, this time a hint of a warning in his voice. "Sit down."

"Did you tell him?"

"Of course I did, aru," China murmurs testily. He turns away from Taiwan and towards the three others. "Oh, you're here," he says. "Please take a seat, aru."

Vietnam, Korea, and Japan drop down onto the low stools in front of China's desk as they are told. Taiwan, still breathing heavily, lets out one last wail before following suit. Now, with his siblings huddled around him, China sets down the pipe and takes a deep breath.

"Hyung-nim," Korea asks quietly, "what happened?"

"In return for a rather generous loan, I have lent the services of Hong Kong entirely to the Kirkland family, aru."

"You. Did. _What_?" Vietnam keeps her voice low, but her outrage is clear nonetheless. "Ahn, how could you?"

Taiwan, sensing an ally, chirps up again. "Hong would never want to work for anyone else! And Kirkland is horrible—conniving and twisted and, and—and you sold our _brother_ for money!"

"Nii-san, what were you thinking?" Japan asks quietly.

"Hong...is gone?" Korea's voice breaks on the last word.

"Quiet, all of you," China orders. His voice is soft, but they are all immediately silent. "I am not compelled to explain myself to you, aru. Hong Kong knows exactly what is happening, and he will be fine. You do not need to know anything else, aru."

"So...why'd you call us back, then?" Vietnam's tone is steady, but there is a sadness in her eyes.

"We are trying a new plan, aru. We're reopening the restaurant. Taiwan, Vietnam, you have the first shift. Good luck."

Thus dismissed, the two girls rise to their feet and prepare to leave—Vietnam resigned, Taiwan frustrated.

An hour later, as they run around in short-cut Chinese dresses filling orders and pouring out dumpling soup, Vietnam asks, "But really, what the hell is he thinking?"

"You think I know?" Taiwan demands hotly. Her hair is pulled up into two long pigtails, and her hands are full with a dish of noodles. "I thought we decided last time that this plan didn't work. No one ever reveals their deepest secrets over ginseng tea, no matter what Gege thinks."

"Maybe he's right this time," Vietnam says. Carrying a pot of tea, she heads for the main dining room. "I mean, it's a good idea for reconnaissance, at any—"

"Jiejie?" Taiwan asks when Vietnam stops, frozen. "Are you ok?"

"What the hell is _he_ doing here?"

* * *

France lifts his sake cup with one hand and twirls his fork with the other. "Thank you for coming, Feliciano," he says warmly. "Really, it has been too long."

North Italy, who is currently lapping up his noodles, pauses to nod. "Of course, fratello. I'm happy you invited me!"

"Ah, yes. But as fun as it has been catching up, there's something serious I need to discuss with you, Feliciano."

"What's that?"

France coughs delicately. "Things are beginning to move again. I saw the Big Man's cronies in the coffee shop this morning, and Elizaveta contacted me at the same time."

"W-what?" Italy's smile remains in tact, but his eyes grow wide and sad. "But, fratello, I thought you said...three years ago...that we were done. With all of this."

France smiles sadly, then reaches over to tousle Italy's hair. "You have no idea, mon cher, how much I wish that could have been the truth. But if the families are moving once more, we have a chance to tip the tables. Come out on top."

"We tried that once," Italy says uncertainly. "And no one came out on top."

"No one except Arthur," France mutters darkly, but not loudly enough for Italy to hear. Aloud, he says, "Then a second chance should be good for us, non?"

"No, fratello, it shouldn't. I don't want to lose anyone else."

Italy's eyes flash with pain, and France winces. "I am truly sorry, Feliciano. But I cannot sit on the sidelines any longer."

"So you'll start a war for entertainment?"

"No. I'll start a war because the status quo makes me want to retch. And I think your brother would agree with me, Feliciano."

Italy says nothing, buying silence by attacking his noodles once more. When he finally looks up, it is with a distant smile and superficial conversation, and France knows better than to press him anymore.


	4. Chapter 4 : Love Drunk

_**Disclaimer: **_All characters featured in this story are the property of Hidekaz Himaruya and do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this story as it is meant purely for entertainment.

_Den of Thieves  
Chapter Four: Love Drunk_

She's already barely paying attention to the customers in front of her when she seems a distinctive blonde head leave the restaurant. Despite the rather annoyed looks she's garnering, she turns her back on the customers without a word and races back into the kitchen.

"Wan! Wan, where are you?"

"Right here," her little sister grumbles, emerging with a tray laden with delicate tea cups. "What are you screaming about, Jiejie?"

"I found an opportunity for recon. Can you hold down the fort here for a bit?"

"Sure, but..._wait_. Recon? This doesn't have anything to do with _him_, does it?"

Vietnam can't meet her little sister's gaze. She looks at her feet and mumbles, "Maybe. So what? He's a lead, isn't he?"

"Jiejie," Taiwan groans. "Not again. Gege is going to freak if he hears about this."

"It's a good lead!" Vietnam insists. "We haven't seen France in what, three years? Then all of a sudden he just shows up in our restaurant! Tell me, Taiwan, how can that even begin to be a coincidence?"

"Who cares? We were given one job to do-and it didn't include you throwing yourself at him, again!"

"I don't throw myself at him," Vietnam snaps back. "And since when are you content to follow Ahn's every order without complaint? He sold our little brother, remember?"

"But if we finish up this job, he'll come back! If the objective is achieved, he'll bring Hong back, right?" There are soft tears in Taiwan's eyes as she screams at her sister, her voice breaking on the point of desperation. "He _has_ to come back."

"Ahn's the one who gave him away in the first place," Vietnam grumbles. "And to Kirkland, of all people. And who's Kirkland's greatest rival, Wan?" Her voice drops, now, her tone becoming gentler.

Taiwan sniffs as she wipes her eyes. Suddenly, something clicks. "...France."

"Who better to help us get our brother back, than the man who lost everything to Kirkland? He certainly has the motivation to help us."

"And I bet you'll give him some more," Taiwan mutters under her breath. Out loud, she says, "It's a good idea, Jiejie, but I don't think you should do it. There's a reason you and me aren't leading this family; as much as I hate him sometimes, there's a reason Gege _is_. He loves Hong Kong, right. He wouldn't just give him away, unless there was a plan. What if we ruin it by meddling?"

"I'm done with betting on Ahn every time," Vietnam says quietly, but with passion. "And there are things I need to know."

Taiwan and Vietnam state at one another for a very long time. Finally, Taiwan sighs and rubs her hands together. "Fine, Jiejie-go. Do what you have to. But don't be rash-trust in Gege, at least for a little while. We'll keep an eye on France, and if something goes wrong, if we need him, we can always enact this later."

The smile Vietnam flashes at her sister is warm but cynical. "You're right. So just...stay here, ok? I'll be back soon."

As Vietnam runs out of the kitchen, her long tail of hair trailing behind her, Taiwan murmurs, "You'd better."

But as soon as her sister is gone, Taiwan reaches into the pocket of her skirt and extracts a thin, metallic pink cell phone. She gently taps out a message onto the keyboard, then hits SEND before she can think better of it.

**WE'VE BEEN SEEING A LOT OF OLD FACES POPPING UP RECENTLY. BUT I HAVEN'T SEEN YOURS.**  
**WHERE ARE YOU? CAN WE TALK? 3, FORMOSA.**

* * *

When Vietnam first gets out onto the street, she's terrified that she's lost him. Still, a rather tall blonde man is not the hardest thing to find in Chinatown, so after a few minutes of frenzied searching, she spots him. Releasing all her breath at once, she wills her heart to beat a bit slower as she follows him. He seems to be taking his time: window shopping, chatting with passersby, staring up at the sky. She can't decide whether he's being cunning or just whimsical. Belatedly, she realizes she may have been wrong about him. What if, three years after devastating defeat, he's lost his edge? What if he won't be a savior, but a liability? But Vietnam pushes those thoughts away, because they lead nowhere. Right now, she has to take this chance, because it may not come again.

Lost in her own thoughts, she doesn't realize at first she's lost him. When she does, she freezes, looking wildly around her for any trace. "Shit."

"Such strong language," a gentle voice tuts from behind her. And before she can reach for her gun or even turn around, strong hands have grabbed both of her wrists and twisted them behind her back.

"I do believe you're out of practice, ma chère." France's face is low against hers, his lips close to her ear as she squirms in his grasp. "I've never known you to be so sloppy."

"Let go of me," Vietnam hisses at him. He does not oblige her.

"You were following me, Vi, or did you forget that fact? I must admit, after having gone in cognito for so long, I don't appreciate this breach in my privacy."

"Then don't come to our restaurant with Italy, of all people!" As soon as the words leave her mouth, France clasps one hand over it. Both of her hands are now gripped tightly in one of his, and he has her so thoroughly held that when he begins to move, she has no choice but to go with him. Vietnam realizes that he's sliding her back into an alley, but there's nothing she can do about it. A cold anxiety grips her heart.

"I should have known the Ancient One would never leave that handhold of his. Foolish of me to go there-but noodles were the closest available substitute for pasta." She can feel France shake his head ruefully.

When they're far back into the alley, he pushes her up against the wall, turning her to face him. His hands are cold and firm on her shoulders, and she feels as though she's falling into his deep blue eyes. They used to be so light, carefree; now they are opaque and shadowed, filled with things she'd rather not know about.

"Why?" she asks quietly, now that her mouth is free. "Why bring Italy into this, whatever it is?"

"Because I am one man going up against six families of trained spies and assassins," France snaps. "All my allies, all my family, were stolen away from me. And after three years of chewing on that, I've had enough."

"You two are the only ones not affiliated with any of this, anymore," Vietnam murmurs. "Why would you want to come back to it?"

"Because no matter how much I try, I can't forget how power tastes." France shakes his head ruefully. "I can't ignore that those who were once under by command are now serving _him_. And most of all I can't forgive that bastard, for everything he did to me, for everything he kept me from...for existing."

She's never heard so much hatred in his voice, before, and it scares her. Her face blanches, but she's frozen, impotent. "...just what are you planning, France?"

"Nothing I can tell you about, ma chère, not when you are so tied to that brother of yours."

"It's not like I had any other options," Vietnam tells him acidly. "Maybe I would have chosen differently, if I'd been given a choice."

"And for that, I am sorry," France murmurs. He leans close, releases his hold on her shoulders in order to cup her face in his hands. Her heart begins to beat very fast as he leans down and gently kisses her on the lips.

When he finally releases her-how long has it been? a lifetime-she squirms away from him, panting. "I-I'm sorry," she says, "I have to go."

Lost in her own emotions, she still steals a glance at him as she speeds away: hands lighting a cigarette, head tilted to the sky with ironic laughter.

* * *

There are still sincere tears running down Lithuania's cheeks when he finally makes it home. His footsteps echo eerily in the hollow passages as he makes his way down the long corridor. Usually, he'd be making this journey with Poland, and the other man's loud, bland remarks and contagious laughter would reverberate off of the walls and fill the corridor with life. Today, he is alone, and everything seems empty.

At the end of the hallway there is a young woman, her platinum blonde hair held back from her face with thick black ribbon, her hands clasped in front of her. When she spots him, she scowls, but when Lithuania paces her without comment or notice, her brow furrows in confusion. She follows him, holding him back with a hand on his shoulder.

"What happened?" She demands of him coldly, her voice like a knife. "Why is your lip bleeding? Where is Poland?"

But Lithuania can only shake his head as his body is wracked with sobs. The woman's eyes widen in alarm, and she takes a tentative step away from him.

"_What happened_?" she asks again.

Lithuania sniffs, wipes the tears from his eyes. "...we were ambushed," he says finally, his voice dead. "And Feliks...Feliks didn't get away."

"By whom?"

"...Austria, and Prussia and Switzerland."

"But those three...they would never work together." The new voice belongs to another woman, who steps out of one of the adjoining rooms looking very sad. She fingers her short, gray-blonde hair and gently wraps her arms around Lithuania. "Oh, Toris. I'm sure there was nothing you could do."

"If those three are working together," the first woman says, "then it means the Black Eagle is back."

Lithuania gently breaks away from the other woman's hug. "Yes. Natalya, Yekaterina...Germany's back. And he's made his first move."

"We must tell Brother immediately," Belarus says. And before Ukraine and Lithuania can even blink, she has disappeared down the halls, her heels making hardly any sound.

"He...is not going to be happy," Lithuania murmurs. He sucks in his breath and smoothes down his hair. "I don't know how I let this happen."

"It's not your fault, Toris," Ukraine says.

"I let it happen," Lithuania insists, "_Again_! I let them take Feliks!"

Ukraine pauses, her mind awash with memories of a time when her brother wasn't their leader, but Lithuania and Poland were. She sighs heavily, extends her hand. "Come on. We have to report back."

And fifteen minutes later, when they are standing side by side with Belarus in front of a large oaken desk, their boss turns around in his swivel chair and regards them blandly through icy purple eyes.

"They will not get away with this," he promises cheerfully, his mouth smiling in a way that never reaches his eyes. "Someone will pay."

* * *

As Prussia walks down the street, he pauses, a sudden chill washing over him. It is gone just as quickly as it appeared, however, so he merely shakes his head and continues walking. Austria is a few paces in front of him, and now the other man stops and turns angrily on Prussia.

"I told you to stop following me," he says firmly. "Now, go away."

"No, I don't think I will," Prussia says obnoxiously, in a tone that indicates he rather wishes he could stick out his tongue.

"May I ask _why_ you feel the need to follow me?"

"Just because West trusts you, doesn't mean I do."

Austria crosses his arms over his chest and gives Prussia a long, hard look. Behind his thin spectacles, his indigo eyes are smoldering. "Then it's too bad that you have no say in the matter, moron. If he trusts me, that's enough."

"Just know that I'm keeping an eye on you, priss," Prussia continues. "You may have everyone else fooled, but I _know_ that you can't tolerate failure. And that's what you did. _You failed_, and West had to come back and pick up the pieces."

"_Shut. Up._" Austria keeps his voice steady, but there is so much bitterness in it that Prussia backpedals. The silver-haired man rolls his eyes, releases his breath in a huff.

"Do what you want, damn aristocrat. But if you're mistakes put my brother in danger again, rest assured that you'll never have to worry about failure again."

Prussia saunters off after that, the setting sun dyeing his hair almost orange as he slips his hands in his pockets and disappears amongst the buildings. Austria slumps for a moment, then turns around violently and slams his fist into a wall.

"...Roderich?" Suddenly, there are two delicate but firm hands on top of his, a woman removing his glove and gently examining the broken skin between his knuckles. "Why would you do that?"

He looks up, his cheeks red, as he meets Hungary's gaze. She is looking at him condemningly.

"I was frustrated," Austria replies mildly. And then, "I'm glad you came."

"It's the first message I've received from you in three years," she replies tartly. "How could I not?"

"I am so sorry," he says quietly. "You must believe that. I hadn't meant to leave you with him for so long."

"Don't apologize; I make my own decisions about my life. I'm sorry, Roderich, but I'm not waiting for you to save me."

"Then...?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to talk about it right now. It's a beautiful evening, and there's a table waiting for us at the restaurant. I just want to be with you."

So he smiles softly, and wraps one arm around her shoulders, and leads her away.

And Prussia, peeking out from two buildings down, stares at their retreating backs with disbelief and malice in his blood red eyes.


End file.
